HD 'Wednesdays'
by tigersilver
Summary: AU; EWE: No specific place, time or setting. Wednesdays are Draco's watershed...until Potter slams into him, just like a bloody tidal wave.


Author: tigersilver  
Title: 'Wednesdays'  
Pairing: H/D  
Rating: PG  
Warnings: None. No time or place specified.  
Word Count: 970+/-

**HD 'Wednesdays' **

Wednesdays. The watersheds of the week.

Draco sighed. So much to get on with and no time to do it in. And yet, it was relief that tingled in the way far recesses of his brain—his very gut, actually.

There was a light at the end of the tunnel. Truly, there was.

If he managed to complete this one task, he could move on to another. If that were done properly, then there was Potter. If he could see Potter (_touch _Potter! his brain chimed, happily), he'd be alright to get through for the rest of the day—nay, the week.

He could do this. It was merely a matter of strict application of arse to chair, the disciplined concentration that was so second nature to him, he lived it and breathed it—no matter what rubbishing nonsense Potter went on about concerning his sudden unexplained bouts of passion or his fiery foul temper.

That was merely frustration, in any road. It had to out somewhere, and who better to share it with than that same git who caused it?

Besides, it was only natural he'd feel frustrated. There was this before him, and then that, and after, when these had been cleared away, the 'other' awaited him, and it all—this routine of his—never seemed to stop nor cease nor halt in any reasonable fashion. He was nibbled to death by ducks—or, more properly, white peacocks—daily, but especially on Wednesdays. Which seemed to take bloody forever, still pools of calmly 'getting on with it' that they were.

But really, they only marked the middle of his watching brief. Draco refused to think of it as a vigil (far too romantic a notion for _him_ to stomach; he was Slytherin, by Salazar, born and bred), but it could essayed that he was more—more… productive when Potter was about. More…energetic.

The door opened behind him. Possibly. It could also have been a poltergeist or something like. Setting his jaw tensely and scowling fiercely at his half-covered parchment, Draco scowled and refused to look. He'd things to accomplish, he did, and an agenda to keep.

Likely, it was someone he didn't care to waste time on anyway. They'd go away if he ignored them, he knew. He'd perfected the art of silently shooing the unwanted off over the years and was bloody champion at it.

"Draco," came a voice in his ear, soft and low, so suddenly he nearly swallowed his tongue. "Draco, guess who?" Calloused palms and warm fingers blinded him momentarily, and Draco's first inclination was to bite.

Nearly, he did that.

Instead, he jumped six inches straight up, silently damning all the while the sneaky prat to the lowest circle of a fiery Hell for Silencing his rubber-soled trainers, even as a grin began to dawn reluctantly across his still, pale features. That was so very unsporting of Potter, Draco could spit.

"Draco, come away from that," the voice beckoned, coaxing the twist of humour to bloom more widely across the curling edges of Draco's too-tight lips. "I've only a few minutes; let's not waste it."

"Sod off, Potter. I'm busy," he snapped, though of course he wasn't _that_ busy. There was still Thursday and Friday yet to be horridly productive. Still…he wasn't easy (by any means) and Potter, of all people, should respect that. "I've no time for you today; come back tomorrow. Better yet, make an appointment. I'll see if I can fit you in on, oh, say-perhaps the Twelfth of Never."

"Don't be like that, Draco." The warm fingers tightened around his temples, rubbing them lightly. Draco, despite his very strictest intentions, felt his tense shoulders ease. "Please?"

Draco huffed, almost inaudibly.

Then again, perhaps he was overreacting—Potter often led him to lash out in ways even _he _didn't expect.

One of the many fascinating things about Potter, actually.

"Draco…"

Wednesdays generally meant Potter had a longer break in the mornings. Which then freed Potter up to wander about aimlessly, in his usual irresponsible manner. He'd fallen into the bad habit of meandering into Draco's territory all too easily, the git, with no thought to appearances, much less consequences.

Potter did this most deliberately, as if blowing rude raspberries at some great, conjured, crouching monster—whatever it was Potter fancied he was rebelling against _this_ week.

In the very far recesses of his well-organized mind Draco Malfoy knew that very well, as well as he knew his own name and pedigree. The gleam of buried mischief in those green eyes was most enticing, though, as was Potter's cool deliberation.

But. _But_. It was bloody infuriating, waiting about for Potter to get on with his habitual rule-breaking.

Thus, when he finally let loose, twisting and striking with the speed of a cobra; leaping to his feet with a muffled triumphant hiss of 'Got you, wanker!' and grasping Potter's wiry wrists; overcoming his unresisting person in the entirety—ruddy well _forcing_ Potter's still too-thin torso down and across Draco's meticulously organized desktop, he was thinking _that_.

Wednesdays were his personal oasis—the respite that refreshed beyond all measure. He'd not give them up for anything.

Not that he was _certain_ Potter would show up unannounced, as he oft times did on a Wednesday; no, not so much.

It was more that if he _didn't_, Draco would eventually be compelled to hunt him down and corner him, the little blighter, because Wednesdays were the eye of the storm (if he were to be sodding _poetic_ about it) in Draco's too-bland existence, and Potter's exact brand of intensity was precisely what was required to carry him through…safely.

FINITE

_NB: This is another of the series of mini ficlets that can be stuffed into nearly any time or place in the Potterverse, whatever the reader's need requires. Or, so I hope. _


End file.
